Random Thoughts VI
by Ophium
Summary: A series of short stories, from the POV of various characters on the course of several moments of different episodes. From Abruzzi's POV, set during episode 1.01 Pilot. Some bad language present.


AN: Given John Abruzzi's line of work outside the prison, I refer to his blood relatives as 'family', and his business associates as 'Family'.

Random thoughts: Abruzzi

The Paper Duck

_(Set during the Pilot)_

Forty two thousand, eight hundred and eighty seven days; one thousand, four hundred and ten months; one hundred and seventeen years and a half…

I need to take my mind off of all the time I still have left on my sentence or I'm gonna go J-cat on this bin.

I need to take my mind off the idea that my kids will grow up without a father because someone ratted on me.

I need to find a way to show the sorry son of a bitch that put me in here that you don't just turn an Abruzzi in and not suffer the consequences.

I need to know that I'm not being put out to dry by the rest of the Family, like some sacrificial lamb.

I need a king to complete the sequence of cards in my hand and win this bet.

What I do not need is a paper duck that was just placed in front of me.

I realize that far are the days when sons felt obligated to follow in to their fathers' footsteps and take over the family business. But then again, father's business was a little more complicated than a grocery store.

I grew up in a family whose trade had always been in the alternative side of the law and for a long time I thought that every other family was exactly like mine. And those who weren't, it was their bad luck really, because that meant that they didn't had enough money or the kind of influence needed to live life like we did.

I grew up watching men bow in fear in front of my father, eager to obey him, cowing like cockroaches when he turned his judging gaze on them. I grew up with an understanding that the Abruzzi were royalty and Chicago was our kingdom.

And when I was a little bit older and finally understood where our power came from and why other men bowed before my father, I realized that movies like 'The Godfather' and 'Goodfellas' were nothing but funny renditions of what my life was to become. Comic portraits of our days.

No one in my family behaved like the gangsters in those movies, our accents weren't anything like those done by Marlon Brando or Al Pacino, but our ancestors did come from Sicily and more than once I stood watching as some smuck got his Sicilian tie. The bloody version.

Mafia these days ain't like those movies any more. Mafia bosses don't just inherit their family business, there is no ring to pass along and be kissed by minor bosses.

Most get college education; some hire the best to run their affairs, both the legal and the others. All have such a clean sheet in society that you could wipe your ass on it and smell nothing but roses.

Those forcing the law on us became smarter, so like we've been doing since the Prohibition law's days, we outsmarted, outpaid or outlived them. Some things change, others never truly do.

One thing that will never change is that all time saying: you don't snitch on your own. And you do whatever it takes for your Family.

There is a somewhat annoying common belief that a gangster and a mobster are the same thing.

I resent that, I truly do. Because a gangster is nothing more than an outlaw who is part of a gang, while a mobster, a Mafia man, he is part of a Family.

My father once told me that the word Mafia, that I thought had been invented by the Italians, actually comes from an Arabic word – _Mahjas -_ which can be translated as sanctuary.

And that's exactly what a Family is to you. Sanctuary and protection.

You protect your Family, no matter what it takes, and in return, they protect you and your family.

For me, doing whatever it takes, entailed spending the last few years in Fox River. Because someone with no concept of Family values snitched on me.

But even the great Capone got caught, so you have to make do with what life serves you.

Keep the right people in your pocket and all others trembling in fear, and you can get yourself a sweet life inside.

When I arrived at Fox River, I was nothing short of a celebrity with the other prisoners. Because, you see, outside, it pays to stay in the shadow, to act but not be seen, to have people fear your name, but never know your face. In here, it's just the opposite.

First hours in here and I made sure everyone knew exactly who I was, made sure that the power I possessed outside could not be stopped by ten feet walls and barbed wire.

A few promises of a pay check at the end of the month, a few threats to a couple of relatives on the outside, and soon I had a group of men that would do anything for me.

But none of that brought me freedom. None of that made me closer to my family. None of that made it possible for me to hug my kids or make love to my wife whenever I felt like.

I toss the card on the table with more force than necessary, trying as hard as I can to not imagine myself in thirty years, here, in this same spot, playing cards with a fresh set of faces, while my own wrinkles and wastes away. Without ever tasting freedom again.

The sun, that had been warming the right side of my face, suddenly disappears and I stop, slightly annoyed for having my boring game interrupted. Before I can look up and see the face of the crazy person who dared to shadow me, a folded piece of paper lands on top of my cards. One of those Japanese folded animals. An origami bird.

For a split second I wondered if I was about to butt heads with some Yakusa lost member that wanted move in on my turf. They are everywhere these days and one can not be too careful when dealing with those opium-filled-tattoo covered nut heads.

But the tall, skinny, shave headed kid blocking my sun has nothing of Japanese about him.

I look up, meeting his steely eyes, judging him, forcing him to look away. His sweater has its sleeves slightly rolled up, hands tucked inside his pockets and I catch a glance of tattoos one both his wrists.

I think I've heard about him before. The little fish with the big tattoo.

I revise my Yakusa theory but push it aside once again. He still doesn't look the type and the Japanese mobsters have long lost their monopoly in full body covering tattoos.

P.I. duty, he demands, without even waiting for me to ask what the fuck does he want, and I take a second hard look at him, trying to figure if he's retarded or just insane.

Because you don't just come and _demand_ things from John Abruzzi, like I'm Santa fucking Claus. I demand things from others, and they bleed if they don't comply.

Boy looks as much retarded as he looks Japanese; the insane theory I'll put on hold for now.

Maybe he's just a confuse kid that thinks this is the wild west and him, being the new blood in town, needs to challenge the fastest gun on the west. Me.

By all rights he should be in ground by now, bleeding from some new hole, just for having interrupted my boring game, but I'm feeling magnanimous today.

Great word that one, magnanimous. Just his luck.

I turn the folded paper in my hand, looking at the others in the table, a sardonic smile on my face, my words designed to mock him and put him in his place.

Those playing cards with me have been obeying my orders long enough to know what my look means and, without much waste of words, they start to get up, their closed fists speaking more eloquently than a thousand Shakespearian sonets.

The kid, demonstrating that he in fact has nothing of retarded, and that his insanity only goes so far, wisely steps away, calmly, relaxed, like he's in control.

For some reason, that tickles me off.

But even in a place like this, where nothing of importance ever seems to happen, the matter is soon forgotten, categorized as unimportant in my busy mind.

When Maggio calls in to tell me about Fibonacci's new lead and the origami bird that he too received, I felt dumb.

Deep down, where no one would ever see and in a place that would never be put to words, I felt really dumb.

I felt played.

And all of a sudden I knew what had tickled me off in the kid's attitude. He had acted as if he was in on some private joke that was being made at my expense.

I was in no mood to laugh.

That soon-to-be-dead kid had sent the picture of fucking Fibonacci alongside one of his fucking paper ducks, knowing that sooner or later, even thought I had told him to fuck off, I would be coming to him.

Just like he said I would.

To what? Cave in to his demands?

I cross the yard in fury, other inmates wordlessly making room for me and my associates to pass, all of them glad that it's not after them that we're after. They all know that the poor smuck at the end of our little trip will be sorry for having pissed me off this bad. And they all know that no one pisses Abruzzi off and keeps on breathing.

Westmoreland was on the bleachers talking to tattoo boy. Being the old nose that he is, he can by now smell trouble from a mile away. He smelled us loud and clearly, wasting no time in making himself scarce. Smart old fart.

The kid, however, not that smart. But then again, he must've realized that in here, he can run, but he can't hide. So he seats there, like he doesn't have a care in the world.

Again, that tickles me off, because I know there is something about this joke that I still don't understand.

On the odd chance that he's come to realize his mistakes and wants a way out, I give him a chance to come clean, to tell me all about Fibonacci and how he came to know his location.

Again, the kid tries to play games with me, and I lose my patience. Maybe after my associates loosen up some of his teeth, his tongue might feel freer to start talking.

I can honestly say that I never saw it coming. His fist, I mean.

I can't remember the last time anyone came close enough to actually land a blow on me. I think I would have to go back to kinder garden, because other than small children, all others knew better. All others knew that hitting John Abruzzi was hitting the Abruzzi Family.

I could've used this kid outside. I mean, I am, above all else, a business man, and as that, I have a certain '_eye'_ for good assets. This kid seems to have the right proportion between brain and balls, and that is rare to find these days.

Outside.

In here, I watch as my associates beat the crap out of him, waiting for the words of submission to leave his mouth. Instead, it's the guards' bullets hitting the ground that we hear.

I look at the kid, curled up on his side on the ground, gritting his teeth against the pain. He'll be all black and blue in the morning, but with the information about Fibonacci still inside him, he gets to life another day.

Fibonacci put me in here. Fate has delivered in my hands the means to get my revenge. All I have to do is shake the information out of the kid, one way or the other. And when he can't stand the pain no more and finally gives me what I won't, my face will be the last thing he'll ever see on this doomed place. My smiling face.

Because I am John Abruzzi and I always get what I need. And as it turned out, a paper duck was exactly what I needed.

The end


End file.
